


sweeter place

by FrostyChess (chesswatchesclouds)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Female Protagonist, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, NSFW, Spoilers for FFXV: Kingsglaive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-03 19:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11539050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesswatchesclouds/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: “You might be a hero, Nyx,” you say softly, the words breathed against his lips, “but you can’t save everyone.”





	sweeter place

**Author's Note:**

> i mean, i did _say_ i was a big slut for Nyx, so... 
> 
> My first smut in this fandom, or ever yikes, so please be gentle with criticism. I am always open to anything that can make me a better writer, so please feel free to hit me with anything constructive. thank you! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

He’s an unmoving lump in the centre of your pillows and blankets, stretched from corner to corner with limbs dangling off the sides of the bed. He twitches at your presence, a moment of assessment before he slumps once more, burying his face in your pillow. Your bag hits the floor with a quiet thump, your body going through the motions of of winding-down from the day from hell, and Nyx hardly moves until you throw yourself onto the bed with him.

A wayward arm plays pillow to your neck and head, the leather of his jacket cool against your skin. With your legs across the back of his thighs, you throw your arms over your eyes to darken your already dimly-lit room. Your free hand traces unseeable patterns on his back, carefully avoiding the large emblem between his shoulder blades, and Nyx twitches again, lifting his head.

His voice is barely a whisper, low and rough, “Bad day?”

You lower your arm and stare at the ceiling. “The worst.”

He exhales breathily. “Yeah. Me too.”

You never ask and he never tells. There’s never really any comparison between your ‘bad day’ and his - Nyx is a Kingsglaive, after all, and the problems of the Kingsglaive always far outweigh your own. Despite this, the comforting silence the two of you share speaks louder than words.

Nyx starts to move, gently pulling his arm free from under your neck and rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling with you and revelling in the quiet. There’s five minutes or so of this, of _breathing_ , of _being alive_ with him, before he reaches for your hand and entwines your fingers. He squeezes gently, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your skin and following a pattern only he can see. Meanwhile, you ground yourself with the warmth that oozes from his skin.

You inch closer, seeking more, and roll onto your side to rest your head on his shoulder. It’s not the first time Nyx has been a shoulder to cry on, not the first time he’s snuck into your apartment and crept about in the dark - the first had been a revenge-prank, the second a realisation that you’re not nearly as strong as he thinks. Tonight, you refuse to shed any tears.

You hear him swallow over the steady heartbeat against your ear. The soft, defeated sigh follows a second later.

“... Crowe is dead.”

You lift your head. Nyx won’t meet your eyes.

“Nyx…”

He shakes his head, a jerking motion as he grinds his teeth together. He barrels on, “Libertus _left_ the Glaives.”

“Nyx.”

“The King is going to sign a damned _peace_ with the Niffs.”

“ _Nyx._ ”

Finally, he looks at you, his cool grey eyes steely with emotion. This close to him, you can see the redness surrounding his eyes, the telltale signs of tears you’ve missed since your arrival. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows again and he’s still grinding his teeth, biting down retaliatory words. He wants to fight, wants to rage and shout; you can see it in his restrained, angry stare, can hear it in the deep, huffing breaths he’s taking. You lean forward to rest your forehead against his, meeting his fiery eyes with a burning passion in your own.

“You might be a hero, Nyx,” you say softly, the words breathed against his lips, “but you can’t save everyone.”

Nyx’s arm is around your back, cradling you against him and keeping you near. His arm flexes as he draws you closer, a swift, squeezing hug as he moves to bury his face in your shoulder. He inhales shakily, eyes fluttering closed as he relaxes, and you lift your hand to card your fingers through his hair. He murmurs a “thank you” against your skin, following the statement up with a sweet and brief kiss. It’s the first taste of a delicious dessert you both need for comfort but those that follow it are far more desperate.

Nyx rolls you onto your back, tongue tangled with yours in an impassioned dance while his hands eagerly grasp at your clothes. You return his enthusiasm tenfold, reaching for whatever part of his uniform you can lay your hands on and picking at the belt buckles and ties. To your frantic fingers, there appears to be no rhyme or reason to the leather coat, and it takes Nyx’s hands on your to still your movements.

“Alright, sweetheart, easy,” he mumbles against your lips, easing your rising frustration. “Here, let me.”

He rises, straddling you while quickly and efficiently ridding himself of his coat. It’s tossed to the side with less care than usual, his shirt following seconds after, and your reaction is immediate. His skin is warm under your tentative fingers, a wonderful heat that you’ve come to associate with him; he keeps you awake some nights and comforts you on others, reminds you that he’s here and he’s _alive_ after weeks of no contact and insufferable, terrifying _silence_. You follow the scars and the tattoos with your index finger, the stories and the secrets, and he shudders under your touch, rasping your name against your throat between needy kisses.

You raise your hand to card your fingers through his hair while your free hand wrestles with your shirt, wriggling beneath Nyx’s lips and hands until you can draw the fabric over your head and toss it out of the way. With nothing keeping your breasts from him but the thin lace of your bra, Nyx’s large and rough hands cup them gratefully, kneading the flesh gently while his mouth sucks and nibbles on the junction of skin between your throat and collarbone.

The pressure has your back arching into his mouth, breathy gasps escaping your lips as you reach behind you to unclasp your bra. Nyx’s grin is _wicked_ at the sight of your bared breasts; he lowers his mouth towards them, swiftly snatching one of your puckered nipples into his warm mouth, and he revels in the languid moan the action draws from you.

He lifts his head, returning those skilled, grinning lips to yours and stealing kisses while your cheeks heat and your arms curl around his shoulders to pull him closer. His hands are still on your breasts, grey eyes lustily scanning your face and zeroing in on your kiss-reddened lips. A husky plea of his name seems to jolt him from his stupor.

He stops your wandering hands from reaching for his pants - they’re so _delightfully_ tight, so wonderful on any other day that you wouldn’t mind him keeping them on while you stare lustfully at his ass, but tonight they keep the prize from you and you want them _gone_. He grins crookedly at your eagerness, bending in for another, ghosting kiss, and trailing his lips along your feverish skin as he descends along your body.

“You first,” he promises in a hushed drawl, the ends of his braids tickling along your skin as his hands leave your breasts to work at the button of your jeans.

“Nyx, no,” you try to protest, rising onto your elbows. “Let me-”

He has you on your back again in seconds, silencing your protests with a sound kiss. When he pulls back, he’s fondly shaking his head at your stubbornness - and your bleeding heart.

“Let me do this for you,” he all but begs. Tender silences lies between you as Nyx waits with bated breath for your agreement.

Your answer is a defeated, affectionate sigh. “Alright,” you tell him. Then, with a mischievous smile, “Work your magic, _hero_.”

You worry for a moment that this is the wrong time for the nickname, that with the weight lying over Nyx’s head and heart he might retreat and disappear. Instead, he rises to the challenge, catching your lips in another bruising yet loving kiss while his hands remove your jeans. He helps you wriggle out of them, cursing and praising them under his breath; skinny jeans might make _your_ ass look great but damned if Nyx doesn’t like getting you out of them more than seeing you in them.

His warm breath ghosts over your navel as the tension builds and molds into something else entirely. For all the build-up, you feel as if the curtain is about to rise and the show is finally going to start. With a breathy moan of his name to encourage him, you throw your head back and exhale noisily as he lightly kisses your core through the thin fabric of your panties.

Desire curdles your stomach, twisting and coiling as you impatiently wait for him. He hooks his fingers into the hemline of your panties, swiftly pulling them from you and tossing them over his shoulder. You catch a glimpse of them slung across the back of Nyx’s discarded coat, a shock of colour against the black leather, before Nyx’s mouth and tongue draw your attention again.

A shuddering breath leaves your lips, a gasped moan of his name as his tongue licks up your slit and swirls around your clit. He moans gratuitously, revelling in your unravelling, and as his tongue gently penetrates your folds, you can feel his grin against your lower lips in response to your shaky gasp. Heat coils like a spring inside you as you throw your head back, a low and quiet, blissful moan leaving your lips. Another deeper and more insistent lick against you has you squirming, hands reaching blindly for Nyx and tangling in his hair.

His tongue circles your clit again, and his mouth leaves you for a few, intolerable seconds to coach, “That’s it, sweetheart.”

His lips close around your clit once more. Your fingers clenching in his hair must be painful for him but you’re so lost in sensation that you hardly realise, gasping his name like a prayer over and over again. Every suck against your bundle of nerves has you squeezing the tangled strands between your fingers, until your back is arching from the bed and you’re hoarsely shouting his name for the city to hear.

Nyx guides you through it, murmuring sweetly in your ear as you come down again. As your fingers limply disentangle from his hair, he rises slowly, gathering you closely as he kisses you again,lips still wet with your juices. His smile is soft and gentle against your skin as he removes the tight leather breeches of his Kingsglaive uniform and kicks them across the room. His penis is long and hard and ready for you, pressing against your thigh as he lavishes you in more kisses, whispering his love to you in the breaths between.

You curl yourself around him when he inserts his length inside you, overbearingly gentle as he sheathes himself inside your warm sex. A drawn-out, throaty sigh fans across your collarbone when Nyx bottoms out; he goes still, watching your face carefully for signs of pain and discomfort as you adjust to his thick member inside you. Wrapping your arms tighter around him, you draw yourself closer, fingers clawing at his shoulders while you cross your legs behind his back.

A tentative roll of his hips as pleasure unfurling within you, fanning the flames of the dying fire of your last orgasm. Nyx dips his head to catch your nipple in his mouth again, rolling the flesh into a pert bud with his tongue while your hand once more finds its way to clench in his hair. A thin sheen of sweat lies on your skin and his; there’s no sound in the room but your laboured breaths and the creaking of the bed,

Nyx’s thrusts have you rapidly approaching another climax, his hand reaching between the two of you to find your clit once more. With Nyx’s fingers and cock quickly pushing you higher and higher, it’s easy to forget what brought you together in the first place. It’s easy to forget the troubles of your day, to lose yourself to Nyx’s touch and kisses, to return the favour and pull him from his thoughts, even if it’s only for a little while.

His thrusts turn desperate as he nips along the skin of your breast towards your throat, mumbling lost words about your feverish-feeling skin. What he’s saying feels important and weighty but damned if you’re listening; at this moment, you’re unable to vocalise anything but needy, urgent moans.

Nyx’s skilled fingers provide the extra stimulation you need. With a wordless cry on your lips and Nyx’s teeth latched onto your shoulder as he groans his release, you’re pushed over again, every limb tense and shaky.

In the aftermath, you slump like a doll, your limbs like jelly and a blissed-out film over your thoughts. You hear yourself make a low, pleased hum as Nyx slowly pulls away, removing himself from you and leaving you feeling empty, empty but warm. He returns in seconds, a warm cloth in his hand and murmured assurances, cleaning you up first before himself and throwing the cloth aside carelessly to pull you close and hold you in his arms.

You’re so content you’re sure you might start purring at any second. Chancing a glance at Nyx to ensure he’s feeling the same, you’re instead surprised to see a crease between his brows and a troubled look haunting his eyes.

“Hey,” you start, reaching up to smooth away the offending frown with your fingers. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

A quirk of his lips, and he teases, “Well, actually, I’m just thinking I might need to start sneaking into someone else’s apartment...”

You smack his chest. He doesn’t acknowledge the weak hit. There’s a resigned look about him that you don’t like at all.

“Nyx?”

“You know I’ll always protect you, right?” The weight behind his words is accompanied by a heated, passionate look in his eyes. “I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.”

The lull in his fiery statement prompts you to reply. “Of course I do.”

“Alright. Come to Galahd with me.”

You blink, once, twice, open your mouth to speak but find no words.

“The Glaives are finished,” he hastens to explain. “There’ll be no place for us after the treaty is signed.”

“But…”

“I won’t have King Regis’ power, true.” His hand cups your jaw, the strands of your hair brushing the tips of his fingers. “That’s not going to stop me from fighting for my home.”

Insomnia is _your_ home though - you’re not sure you can up and leave to go to a place you’ve never even seen. Nyx doesn’t speak of it often either; you ask and his gaze clouds over and goes dark, followed swiftly by a haunted sadness he tries too hard to hide. “Hero,” they call him, yet you wonder if that moniker’s origin stems from something he won’t speak of.

“Nyx,” you try, breaking through the determined expression that’s taken hold on his features. “I…”

The words won’t come: _you can’t_. Insomnia is home, is _safe_ \- you’ve grown up here, loved and lost here, buried your parents here, met your best friends, met _Nyx_ here. You can’t bear to leave it.

The slump of his shoulders and the melancholy smile he gives you makes your heart lurch. He nods, looking away from you, and you get the impression your answer is the one he expected. Your throat burns, clogged with emotion you don’t want to show. Hastily wiping at the tears forming in your eyes, ridding yourself of them before they can truly form, you start to pull away from him.

“I guess I should have expected that,” he mutters tightly. “You like your comforts.”

He’s hurt, that’s all.

“I’m sorry.” The words feel weak and meaningless. You utter them again anyway, futilely wishing they can fix everything.

His one-shouldered shrug cuts you deep, the blank stare he fixes you with even deeper so. Excuses are on your tongue, stuck behind your teeth because they won’t help anyway. Oh, to turn back the clock - but how far? To the moment you met Nyx on that street in the pouring rain? Or to the moment you met again in that bar and he bought you that drink?

“Guess this is over, huh?” you ask, crestfallen.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Guess so.”

You stare at your hands, eyes burning with tears, and find the strength to inhale deeply, willing them away. You settle against him again, tucked against his side, feeling miserable and alone in his arms.

“I’ll leave my key in the morning,” he says softly.

You nod. “That would be best.”

He’s gone before dawn. You remember a dreamlike kiss and a whispered apology, and when the city is burning and crumbling and Old Kings have arisen to fight, you wish you’d left with Nyx when you had the chance.


End file.
